


Nothing Else Matters

by li0nrunner



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, M/M, Pre-Slash, pre smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:53:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/li0nrunner/pseuds/li0nrunner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have been flatmates for a year, just as comfortable friends, but they're obviously feeling a little bit more than that.<br/>~ based on Nothing Else Matters by Apocalyptica ~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Couldn't Be

**Author's Note:**

> Johnlock is my ultimate OTP so I'm really excited about this. I have a lot of feelings ok ok.  
> Also, I'm from America (unfortunately), so if I used any really American terms that should be replaced with British ones, please let me know, and I will fix it. I appreciate all feedback. Also, I am currently in college, (or University if you're British), so I do have a lot of other things to do, and I really have no idea how long it will take me to finish this. But I have made it my main priority lately (fantastic student, I know), and I won't abandon it, so don't worry. Stay tuned, mates.

Doctor John Watson was by no means an ordinary man. He was an army doctor and very intelligent even as doctors go. He was unusually kind and sympathetic despite the pains that the war had left in his body, pains that would make a normal man quite irritable, keeping him up late at night. But next to his flatmate, John felt quite ordinary, for he lived at 221B Baker Street with Sherlock Holmes, the most extraordinary man in the world. A consulting detective. Beyond brilliant. Could tell you anything about a person's life just by looking at them. The science of deduction, he called it. However, as brilliant as he was, he was completely socially ignorant. He was honest and blunt to the point of being horrifying. Detective Inspector Lestrade put up with Sherlock because Scotland Yard needed his skills. And, until he met John Watson a year ago, Sherlock hadn't had any friends, let alone a girlfriend or a boyfriend.  
But there's a first time for everything, isn't there?  
  
~~~

Sherlock hadn't had a case in a week. He had barely spoken or moved in the last day. John had just come home from shopping for groceries.

"I said, 'Could you make some tea?'" Sherlock was draped over the couch in his boxers and blue robe, staring blankly at the ceiling.

John laughed quietly. Sherlock did this often, talking to John without realising that he wasn't even in the flat. "How long ago did you say that?"

"What's the time?"

"Nearly eight."

"In the evening?"

"Yes." John made for the kitchen and set down the bags he was carrying.

"What's the day?"

"Friday." John paused. "Did you really not know the day?"

Sherlock didn't answer. John rolled his eyes and went to put the groceries away.

"Were you on a date?"

"What?" John peeked out into the living room. Sherlock had curled up into a ball facing the back of the couch. "No, Sherlock, I was just getting us food. I told you that."  _And I know you could have deduced that,_ John thought. _  
_

"Good." He rolled over to stare at the ceiling again. The side of his robe spilled softly onto the floor, exposing his bare pale chest.

John's eyes lingered for a minute too long. Sherlocked turned to look at him. His eyes narrowed. "What are you staring at?"

"S-sorry?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "You were looking at me."

Searching for words, John felt his mind go blank. Those green eyes had him captivated. The look on his face was so precious. He looked curious, maybe even confused.

Wait,  _confused? Sherlock?_ But Sherlock understood everything. He had figured John out in a heartbeat the first time they had met, just as Sherlock did with everyone else they encountered. In less than a heartbeat. John's was so loud, so fiercely pounding, that he thought the whole building could hear it. A good minute passed, the two men frozen, staring at each other.

John blinked quickly, as if coming out of a trance. "I should, uh, go to bed."

"So early in the evening?"

"Err, right. Shower, then." John hurried off to his room, put down his things, and crossed over to the bathroom. He had just dropped his trousers when the door flew open. John spun around in shock. Sherlock was standing in the doorway looking expectantly at him. Utterly bewildered, John stumbled back, tripping on the side of the tub. He nearly fell dangerously, but Sherlock reached out with incredible reflexes and caught his arm with one hand and the small of his back with the other, landing them in a position quite similar to dancing. John managed to regain his balance, and he looked up at Sherlock. The two stood there with locked eyes for a moment, still holding onto each other.

John finally spoke. "Is there, ah, something I can do for you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock let go, stepping back. "Well, you didn't answer my question."

"So sorry," John said a little sarcastically. "Remind me what that question was, please."

"Could you make tea?" Sherlock's usualy pale face was tinted pink.

"Well," said John. "I am in my pants."

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again, as if he wanted to say something but thought better of it.

"I will make you some tea when my shower is finished." John's lips tightened, and he shifted his eyebrows, hinting to Sherlock that it would be a good time to exit the bathroom.

And so he did.


	2. Dinner With Four

"I won't go."

"Sherlock, honestly, get up."

"No. I don't want to go."

"We were invited. It's polite."

"No." Sherlock was done up in one of his suits, but he was slumped on the couch, arms crossed and pouting.

"Sherlock, come  _on._ "

"Why would Lestrade even being going to dinner with  _Mycroft_? And then decide to invite  _us_?" Sherlock shuddered.

John paused. "I do have to admit, it sounds odd, but nevertheless, we are going," he said firmly.

Sherlock stood. "Fine. But I won't be nice."

"Whatever you say, Sherlock."  _Anything to get him out the door at this point_ , John thought.

The cab ride was silent. John was mentally preparing himself for the night. Mycroft and Lestrade had called John earlier in the day suggesting he and Sherlock meet them for dinner. John was mildly confused to say the least.  _Lestrade must be doing work for Mycroft,_ he assured himself. But why invite them?  _Well, Mycroft does like to check up on his brother, I suppose._

They arrived at a nice but casual sort of place, entering to see Mycroft and Lestrade engaged in conversation at a neary table. As they drew closer, John noticed Sherlock's eyes grow wide, and his lips turned up in a greedy smile.

"Problem, Sherlock?"

"You said I don't have to be nice, right?" Sherlock said quickly and softly.

"Well, I--"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock exclaimed. "So lovely to see you!"

All gave Sherlock an odd look. This was certainly not his usual behaviour.

"Hello, dear brother," Mycroft said with narrowed eyes.

"Are you two doing work together?" Sherlock asked with a knowing smile.

"Err, well, yes. We were just discussing a case that --"

"And I assume you were discussing that case all last night?"

The detective inspector leaned forward. "Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

Sherlock's eyes glinted. This was his favourite part of life, deducing things about people to make them uncomfortable. "Mycroft has cat hair on his shirt. He does not own a cat, but you, in fact, do. Don't you, Lestrade?"

Lestrade blinked and flushed. "Well, I do, but --"

"Sherlock, please," Mycroft interrupted sternly. "I picked him up at his flat before we came here."

"Leave them alone, Sherlock, honestly." John touched his flatmate's shoulder lightly, but he shrugged him off.

"Oh, but I don't even have to  _try_ with this one. Mycroft, you were wearing that suit yesterday!"

Mycroft struggled with an explanation. "No I wasn't," he finally said, clearly frustrated.

"And you." Sherlock turned back to Lestrade, who was holding his head in his hands. "You have slight bags under your eyes, and you have a headache."

"How can you even --"

And at that moment a short waitress arrived at the table. "Please, sit, boys. What can I get you?"

Sherlock huffed, and he and John sat down across from each other. "Water for Lestrade and I. John will have a beer, any kind, and Mycroft will have a Merlot."

The waitress looked expectantly to see if any of the men would object, but they were silent. "Sure thing," she said, and was off.

"What's the case?" Sherlock inquired.

"Mademoiselle De La Soir, she calls herself. Lady of the Night. Basically, a more polite name for a prostitute. Following in the footsteps of Miss Irene Adler, it seems." Mycroft leaned back in his chair and smiled.

Sherlock frowned at him. "Why wasn't I called?"

"Did you not hear me, Sherlock? We're dealing with a  _prostitute_."

Sherlock stared.

"Which has to do with  _sex._ "

"Why wasn't I  _called_?" Sherlock spit out, clearly angry.

Mycroft's smile widened. "We all know that isn't your area of expertise, Sherlock. What was it that Miss Adler said Moriarty calls you? The _virgin_?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but the waitress returned with their drinks. "Here you are, boys." She put the drinks on the table. "Can I get you something to eat?"

Sherlock still stared at his brother. "Mycroft will have a steak, and for Lestrade, Bruschetta." Again, the two were silent. "John and I are leaving." He stood up briskly, tugging John by the arm out the door.

"Err, thanks for the invitation," John mumbled. He watched the end of Sherlock's coat disappear through the door. John turned back to the table, picked up the beer bottle, nodded, and followed his flatmate.


	3. Not A Virgin

Sherlock huffed around the flat for a while after they got back. John waited for him to discuss what was bothering him, but no words came from Sherlock besides an occasional "hmph." Finally, after an hour, Sherlock made the loudest "hmph" yet, and John couldn't help himself.

"What is it?"

No response.

"Sherlock."

"What?" He was sitting on the couch, legs up in front of him, still in his suit.

"You're obviously upset. I think you should talk about it." John hesitated. "I'm happy to listen."

Sherlock glanced at John. He made a face like he wanted to comply, but instead he rolled over and faced the wall. John rolled his eyes and turned back to his computer, typing up a post on his blog and sipping his tea quietly.

After another half an hour, a muffled sound came from the couch.

"Sorry?" John glanced over his shoulder.

Sherlock spun around and put his head in his hands. "It isn't true."

John tilted his head. "What isn't true exactly?"

Sherlock's head sank lower, almost touching his knees. "I'm not a virgin."

"Oh!" John jumped slightly in his chair, quite surprised. That was a bit too much information. Although, John couldn't deny, he had been  _very_ curious. This knowledge was honestly a little shocking. And now that Sherlock was talking about it, John wanted to know more. "That's, err, nice."

"You are surprised to hear that," Sherlock said in a way that was not a question but invited John to counter it.

"Um. I was not thinking one way or the other," John mumbled without confidence.

Sherlock was silent.

John's curiosity finally got the best of him. "Male or female?"

"Both."

" _What?_ " John was certainly not expecting that.

"I was twenty. She and I were part of a research project at university. I don't remember her name," Sherlock said flatly.

"Wow. Were you drunk, or...?"

"No, of course not. I just deleted that information."

 _Of course,_ thought John.  _Not important enough for Sherlock Holmes and his massive brain._

"I was honestly curious. Everyone I knew had done it. They had knowledge that I didn't have."

"Ah, I see. You couldn't bear that people less intelligent than you knew something you didn't." John smiled. Such like Sherlock.

"Precisely. So, I seduced her. And we had a night." Sherlock was staring at the floor.

"Did you, err, enjoy it?" John asked, wondering exactly how Sherlock Holmes went about seducing someone.

"I suppose." Sherlock's mouth twisted thoughtfully.

John leaned forward in his chair. "And the male?"

"That was a year later. Another experience I didn't have that others did."

"Of course." John thought for a moment. "So, which did you enjoy more? The male or the female?"

"They were both very informative," Sherlock said firmly.

"No, I meant--"

"I know what you meant." Sherlock stood and whisked off to his room, leaving John with his jaw hanging open.

~~~

After a couple hours of attempting to finish a blog post, John finally closed his laptop. It was eleven-thirty. He could hardly focus with what Sherlock had just told him buzzing around in his head. John felt bad. Why had Sherlock stormed off like that? Had he been offended? Ashamed? John rose from his chair and padded over to Sherlock's bedroom door. He hestitated. What would he say? But he needed to say  _something_ , anything. He knocked, and pressed his ear up against the door. A second later, it swung open, making John jump back in alarm.

"I accept your apology."

"You--," John stammered. "Uh. I mean. Oh, good. Yes. That's exactly what I was about to say." John breathed out, relieved that he wasn't there stammering about what to say, making a fool of himself. Sherlock had said it for him.

Sherlock peered at him quizzically. "Of course it was."

"Right. Well. If that's all, I'm just going to go to bed." He hesitated. He felt like he had something else to say, but he didn't quite know what.

"Good night, John."

"Good night, Sherlock."

~~~

John Watson went to bed that night feeling very confused. So Sherlock Holmes had actually had sex. Twice! And even with a  _man._ Of course, Sherlock did not make his sexual orientation obvious, and, to be honest, it still wasn't quite clear to John. Most people assumed Sherlock was gay just because he had never shown any interest in women. Those who knew him and weren't ignorant pricks usually referred to Sherlock as asexual.

John was straight, of course, according to everyone else. But if John were to be honest with himself, he was fairly sure that wasn't the case. Oh, and what a case Sherlock would make of it. He thought back to the night he had come home with the groceries. Sherlock thought John had been on a date, and when he learned it wasn't so, he had said, "Good." Good that John hadn't been on a date? And the way Sherlock had looked at John with those all-seeing eyes. It made John's brain go fuzzy.

John had spent a lot of time around men in Afghanistan. He could remember a good number of them who he had found to be attractive. He'd had a very graphic dream about one. Dark hair and bright blue eyes. John had quite a job cleaning himself up the next morning. And he hadn't felt as guilty or embarrassed as someone in his situation might usually have been. He always knew he liked girls, and he was nearly positive he liked guys too. But he wasn't ready to share that yet. Not that he was ashamed. He just didn't know how to bring it up. Unless he was actually  _with_ a guy ...

John could still remember the first moment he saw Sherlock down in the lab. So mysterious. John was interested in him and attracted to him immediately. WIthin a month, John was yearning after Sherlock so lustfully. And now, after a year, John beyond cared for Sherlock. He loved him. John knew it was love. He had been with this girl when he was seventeen, a nice blonde, fairly intelligent. And he had thought he knew what love was then. He really thought he felt it. But that was  _nothing_ , a stupid crush compared to how he felt for Sherlock. Sure, he was cocky and snarky and sometimes a total prat. But he was intriguing and fantastic and beautiful in every sense of the word. So fantastic and beautiful. Why would someone like Sherlock ever want to be with someone like him?

 _Can't get my hopes up,_ John thought to himself, and he rolled over and let his tired eyes close.


	4. Let Me Help

Sherlock had been working on this case feverishly for days. John sat feeling quite useless, watching him fly between his laptop, books, and photos pinned to the wall.

"Sherlock, I think--"

"Shut up."

"Honestly, if you'd just let me--"

"I'm  _thinking_ , John."

This sort of conversation had been going on since Sherlock took the case. He refused to let John help. He was  _thinking,_ and he needed  _silence._ John huffed and looked over at the photos. They were all of this "Mademoiselle de la Nuit." Some were of her face bashed in and her body strewn unceremoniously in an alley. Some were of her cleaned but wounded body down in the morgue. But there were many of her actually engaged in sex. Some were clearly posed for the camera, while others seemed to be screenshots from a video. She was hot, John couldn't deny it, and the photos absolutely turned him on. It was her striking confidence, even beyond her gorgeous face and body. And she had obvious talent in her profession.  
John looked at one of the photos from the morgue. There were horrid bruises around her neck and chest. "Sherlock, did you notice--?"

"Yes."

There was a loud thud as John stood up from the chair so violently it rocked backwards. Sherlock didn't take his eyes off his laptop.

"Sherlock."

No reaction.

" _Sherlock._ "

The consulting detective rolled his eyes and turned towards John.

"Have I done something stupid recently?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What?"

John tightened his lips. "You always act like everyone around you is a complete idiot, but you usually let me help. Have I done something stupid recently that made you think I'm incapable of contributing to this case?"

"John, please," Sherlock said softly, standing up.

"No, Sherlock! Be honest with me!" John's fists clenched.

Sherlock's eyes darted around the room. He looked as if he were debating with himself in his head very quickly. "No."

"No what?" John's voice heightened in anger.

"You haven't done anything," Sherlock said at almost a whisper.

"Then  _what_ is different this time?"

Sherlock stared at John for a long while. Suddenly, his bottom lip trembled. His eyes grew soft. He looked as if he were about to cry.

"Sherlock? Sherlock what's wrong?" John realised his arms were very tense, and he tried to relax them.

"I ..." Sherlock sank to his knees and put his head in his hands.

John rushed to his side. He took Sherlock's arms and pulled him over to the couch. They sat very close, so close that Sherlock could feel John's breath on his neck.

"You really haven't done anything, John." Sherlock stared at the floor.

"But something is different." John hesitated. "Something that has to do with me." He swallowed. "With us."

"No," Sherlock said suddenly. He looked up at John. "Well, I suppose, yes."

John's face was only inches from Sherlock's. He looked so sad. John had never seen him like this. "Please tell me."

"The girl."

"What girl?" John asked, surprised. "The one in the case?"

"Yes." Sherlock whispered. "I knew her."

"Oh!" John was certainly not expecting that. "I'm, I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

"She was my cousin. The child of my mother's sister."

John just stared. He had never heard anything of Sherlock's family besides Mycroft.

"She was the only person in my family who..." Sherlock looked uncertain about what he wanted to say.

John waited.

"She at least tried to understand me." Sherlock sighed. "She talked to me. She actually cared. Unlike the rest of my family."

John realised his jaw was hanging open, and he shut it quickly.

"Things never went well for her. She worked in prostitution because she had no choice. She didn't get on with the family, save me. They made her an outcast. She did what she had to do to survive. She tried to come see me, but my parents turned her away." Sherlock's face turned from sadness to anger.

"Sherlock, I am very sorry, but--"

"You want to know why that has anything to do with you."

"I was wondering that, yeah," John mumbled, trying not to make the situation all about him. Clearly Sherlock was grieving.

"You know me, John," Sherlock said with a faint chuckle. "I'm a brick wall, impossible to get through. No one gets into my head. No one sees my ... emotions."  
John blinked, his jaw hanging open again.

"I didn't want to seem, well, weak in front of you." Sherlock lowered his eyes.

"Sherlock, y-you can't be serious!" John stammered. "You know I'd lo--" John stopped himself.

Sherlock snapped his head suddenly to look at John. He studied his face but said nothing.

"If you want to show emotions," John said slowly, "I won't think any differently of you."

"Caring is not an advantage," Sherlock said, remembering something his brother had told him once. "I can control it when it's one person. But not when it's two."

John's stomach fluttered. "Two?" He said. "Your cousin, and...?"

Sherlock's green eyes drilled holes into John's blue ones. "You, John."


	5. Fell In Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the plot has been really rushed, but I've been balancing this with a lot of college work, and I want to keep this updated, so that's how it's gonna go for now. Eventually I'll mess around with it more to make it actually good. I have a problem with all of my writing with making things happen too fast.

John stared in disbelief. But he couldn't mean like  _that_. "Well," John said tentatively. "I, err, care about you too, Sherlock."

Sherlock shot up like lightning. he grabbed John's shoulders and pulled him up to face him. "No, John. No." He was breathing heavily. "I can't keep this in my head anymore. It's affecting my work--" his voice cracked, "-- and I just need to tell you." His hair was disheveled and his eyes were wide. He looked like a madman, a beautiful madman.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John felt dizzy.

"I don't think you're an idiot, John. I think you're brilliant. And I--" His eyes dropped to the floor, and his cheeks turned pink. He lowered his arms to his sides. "I feel a lot of things that I'm not, uh, used to." He sighed. "And it scares me. And I've been distancing myself from you to see if it would stop, but it's driving me insane."

John's heart was pounding, and his stomach dropped as realisation washed over him. "S-Sherlock?"

"John, you are..." Sherlock struggled for words. "Wonderful, fantastic, perfect, everythi--"

But Sherlock was unable to finish his sentence. John crushed his mouth into Sherlock's. It took a moment for Sherlock to register what was happening. John was just about to pull back, nervous about Sherlock's lack of enthusiasm, but suddenly he was shoved back onto the couch. John fell back, and Sherlock put his hands on the wall above his head, looking down at John, absolutely glowing. John lifted his hands up to Sherlock's face. This was really happening. It was really, really happening. "Sherlock, I--"

There was a gun shot. Sherlock gasped, and his face twisted in pain. He fell slowly to the ground, and over his head, John saw a shadow disappear around the corner.

~~~

John couldn't think straight. He couldn't think at all. He just saw white walls. White walls all around him. He was cold. A blanket was wrapped around his shoulders.

"John?" He heard a voice seeming to be from somewhere very far away. "John?" It was closer. He blinked. "John, are you alright?" Lestrade came into focus. John didn't answer, and Lestrade frowned. "You can't see him yet. He's still being checked over by the doctors." John's eyes were glazed over. He showed no signs that he had even heard the detective inspector, besides blinking again at him slowly.

"John?" Oh, who was it this time, and what did they want now? John turned his head. A frail body embraced him. "Oh, John! It's so horrible!" Mrs. Hudson stepped back, tears streaming down her face. "But, who could have done it?"

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Moriarty's work, we're assuming. Although, he does usually like to play around with Sherlock first, so we can't be sure." Mrs. Hudson shivered. "We are looking into it, of course," he assured her. He looked at the clock. Four in the morning. John hadn't spoken since he called Lestrade, which was over eight hours ago. "He'll be okay, John. It was just his leg. He'll make it." Lestrade sounded like he was trying to be strong for John but wasn't exactly confident in his words.

Of course it was Moriarty. John knew. He had overheard Lestrade say it was a Black Talon bullet. Must've been an expert, one of Moriarty's puppets. He could've killed Sherlock if he had wanted to, easily. But he didn't. This was his new way of playing with Sherlock. Hurt him, but don't kill him. Yet.  _But it isn't fair, it isn't fair!_ John thought.  _Why can't he just live a normal damn life and not shoot people for sport? And why does it have to be Sherlock?_ Oh, but he knew the answer to that question. Moriarty had eyes all over, and he loved to watch Sherlock go about his cases. And he really loved to watch him suffer.

~~~

Sherlock didn't wake up for three days. He was weak.

John didn't speak for three days. He was weak, too, in a way. Sherlock had fallen after being shot, and his head collided with the corner of his desk. He had a minor fracture of the skull, and there was a chip of bone dangerously close to his brain that needed to be surgically removed. John sat by Sherlock's bed in the hospital, and he only left to go to the bathroom once or twice in a day. He just stared at Sherlock with sad eyes. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson came by every day.

Mycroft even visited once. "He's just sleeping," he said softly to John. But John was silent.

John had dozed off on the third night, still sitting upright in the chair by Sherlock's bed. It was near three in the morning. He could hear Sherlock whispering in his dreams. "John?" he said. "John, is that you? Where am I?" Sherlock's voice grew louder until John snapped awake. "John?" Sherlock's voice came agan in a whisper. But John was awake now! His eyes started to adjust to the darkness, and he saw a figure rustling in front of him. He turned on the lamp next to him, and Sherlock winced at the bright light.

"Sherlock!" John whispered, his voice croaking from lack of use.

"John! What happened? I'm in a hospital. Why?" He held up a hand. "No, wait. I remember. I got shot. In the leg. And then ... That's it." He looked up at John, who had tears in his eyes. "What's wrong?"

John smiled. "You're okay," he said weakly.

"Of course I'm okay. I'm fine." He moved to get out of the bed, but he pulled back when he felt a sting in his leg. "I got shot. In the leg," he said again.  
John rushed to his side. He pushed Sherlock's chest down softly and brushed his dark curls away from his forehead. "You're gonna be okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys get the pun in the title of this chapter?! Fell in love! Like he fell! Cause he got shot!


	6. Lestrade's New Evidence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a few changes to the last chapter, so if you're revisiting, you might want to go back and reread chapter five. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Sherlock had been awake for a few days. He put up a good fight about spending so much time laying in a hospital bed. He didn't like this new, low angle, having everyone stand over him. But, as the doctor's said daily, "You've been  _shot_ for god's sake," or, "You just went through  _brain surgery_." The bullet, in fact, had not made a huge amount of damage as would be expected. It had grazed the side of his thigh, taking out a chunk of skin but missing all main arteries and tendons. The trauma to his head was a problem, but the doctors removed it immediately. They said his leg got lucky. But Sherlock, John, and Lestrade knew that any shot by Moriarty's men landed exactly where it was meant to. This was a warning shot.

It was around eleven at night on day five in the hospital for Sherlock when, upon going in to check on Sherlock, Lestrade stumbled back in shock. Sherlock was asleep on his back as usual, but curled up next to him was John. He was fully dressed with his left arm and leg wrapped around Sherlock's body. His head was nestled into Sherlock's shoulder, and their hands were resting close together on the bed. Lestrade wondered if they had fallen asleep holding hands, and he smiled faintly. John stirred slightly, and Lestrade made to leave before he awoke, but he stopped to snap a photo with his phone. He emitted a giggle that was quite out of character for him and ran out the door just before Sherlock opened his eyes suddenly. He peered down at John, who was sleeping soundly.  _Precious_ , Sherlock thought. He took John's hand back in his, and he closed his eyes again.

~~~

Sherlock woke again around one in the morning. He'd been having a rather frantic dream, and it shook him awake suddenly. John felt his movement and opened his eyes wearily. "S-Sherlock? What time is it?" No response. John looked around wildly until he found a clock. He squinted. "One twelve." Sherlock was staring at him. "What?"

Sherlock gave a boyish smile. "You're very ... cute when you sleep."

John's jaw dropped slightly. He couldn't believe Sherlock Holmes had just used the word  _cute_ , let alone to describe him. John pushed himself up so he was sitting, and Sherlock did the same. They hadn't actually kissed since Sherlock was shot. John didn't know if he should try to...

But Sherlock lifted John's chin with his hands. "You're worried," he said.

"Of course I'm worried." John almost laughed. "You're in the hospital. You got shot! You--"

"I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

"I'll always worry about you," John said softly. "I care about you." He looked down again. "I love you." Sherlock was holding his breath. John barely dared to look at him, but he found no visible reaction on Sherlock's face. John panicked. "I-I mean, well, we--"

Sherlock moved forward, seemingly in slow motion. His lips met John's softly, tentatively. He released for a moment but came back more forceful. John brought his hand up and wrapped it around the back of Sherlock's neck, kissing him passionately. Sherlock was just reaching out to grab John's hips when the door opened. They broke apart, and John scrambled to get out of the hospital bed. He stumbled slightly and, upon straightening himself out, came face to face with a very amused Lestrade.

"No need to fuss," Lestrade said with a wink. He held up his phone showing the photo of John asleep next to Sherlock. John gave Sherlock a worried glance, but he was smiling faintly.

"Have you found anything?" Sherlock asked.

"Not much. We haven't got anything more than the bullet to go off of." Lestrade sighed deeply.

"Have you checked the flat?"

"Of course."

"Not thoroughly enough."

"Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Did you check my cameras?"

"Sorry?" Lestrade tiled his head in confusion. 

"The cameras I installed around the flat and in the hall."

" _What?_ " John interjected. "Is there one in my room? And the bathroom?"

"Of course, John," Sherlock waved his hand to dismiss him.

"Since when?"

Sherlock huffed. "I don't know. Last month."

John's eyes were wide. "Sherlock, there is a thing called privacy, I--"

"It's just in case of a break-in. Honestly, John, do you think I want to sit and watch you in the shower?"

John raised his eyebrows, and Sherlock blushed.

Lestrade looked between the two of them and finally said, "Okay, then, Sherlock, I'll go and check the tapes."

"Next to my laptop," Sherlock said without taking his eyes off of John.

 

 

Lestrade glanced at them curiously and then left, closing the door behind him.

" _Do_ you watch me in the shower?" John asked tentatively.

"Of course not," Sherlock said, and John almost felt disappointed in a strange way, until Sherlock said, "Not that I wouldn't like to. Just, not on my cameras."


	7. An Unhappy Visitor

John didn't leave Sherlock's side if he could help it. Sherlock wasn't awake much. The doctors had him on medicine that made him very drowsy. But John still sat and watched him sleep, often laying in the bed next to him. He didn't even try to hide it anymore. If he wanted to lay with Sherlock, he would do so and not worry about the opinions of others. Lestrade often found them curled up around each other.

It was with great reluctance that John left Sherlock's bed on the morning of day seven. The clock read  _4:10 AM_. John had unexpectedly woken up, wrapped around Sherlock, and he relished in his flatmate's warmth for as long as he could, but eventually he had to get up to go off to the loo. He shuffled down the hall and around the corner into the bathroom. He was just washing his hands when he heard the lock click behind him. He whipped around and stared at the door. He thought maybe he had just imagined it, and he turned back to the sink. He heard slow, even footsteps. John ran to the door, but it was locked. He shook the knob frantically but to no avail. He knew it was late, and he didn't want to wake the other patients, but he knew those footsteps, and they were all in danger.

 _Moriarty_ , he whispered. He banged on the door as hard as he could, but the hospital was silent.

~~~

Sherlock was asleep still. Moriarty entered silently, sliding snakelike around the corner of the room. He sat down in the chair next to Sherlock's bed and stared for a moment. His eye twitched, and without warning he violently flipped the bed-side table, creating a loud crash.

Sherlock shot up. "John!" he shouted instinctively. Moriarty let out a high-pitched laugh. Sherlock turned towards him. "I should've known," he said.

" _John!"_ Moriarty shouted in imitation of Sherlock, who narrowed his eyes. "The two of you are quite cute." Moriarty leaned back in his chair. "Of course, I knew all along you'd end up together."

" _Where is John?_ " Sherlock asked through gritted teeth.

Moriarty laughed again. "Your dear John is just fine. He'll be back soon, I'm sure."

Sherlock glanced at the overturned table. "You've got your people working in the hospital?"

Moriarty grinned widely. "You are so sexy when you do that."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Well, someone would surely come running when they heard the noise. Unless they were expecting it. And you've had this planned for a while, of course."

"Oh, I've got the course of the whole world planned, Sherlock."

"And what is the next step in your plan for me?" Sherlock gestured to the IV in his arm, and Moriarty frowned. "Oh," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Oh, I see. This was not your plan. A shot to the leg wouldn't kill me, but smashing my head is a different story." Sherlock thought for a moment. "I'm assuming you had him executed."

"He could not be allowed to live. He failed in his mission."

"Of course. But it wasn't his fault that I fell the way that I did."

Moriarty slammed his fist on the arm of the chair. "The plan did not go accordingly! It was his job. It was his fault."

"But you intended to hurt me. So why is it bad that my injuries went further than you had planned?"

Moriarty gave a forced smile.

"Oh, right. You have to be the one to kill me."

"Exactly. I'm just playing with you, for now." He stood. "I'll see you again soon, my love." And with that, he strode out of the room.


	8. Nothing Else Matters

John was slumped against the wall of the bathroom when the lock clicked again. It took him a moment to realise what he had heard, and after blinking a few times, he raced to the door. He pulled hard on the handle and it flew open, banging on the wall. He looked around wildly. The hallway was empty. He took off towards Sherlock's room.

Sherlock was sitting up reading the paper. He didn't look up upon John's entering of the room. John glanced at him and then at the overturned table.

"What happened?" he asked, breathing heavily.

"Visitor," Sherlock said, still looking at his book.

"A visitor who flipped your table?"

Sherlock lethargically looked at the table. "Apparently so." He turned back to the paper.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock didn't answer, probably supposing that was obvious.

"Was it Moriarty?"

Still no response. Sherlock's lips tightened.

"What did he want?"

"Just a chat."

John sighed in surrender. Sherlock obviously was not going to discuss it. He walked to Sherlock's bedside, took the book from his hands, and placed it on the chair. He slowly sat down on the bed and took Sherlock's hands in his. Sherlock looked at him curiously.

John cleared his throat. "Sherlock, I don't know what Moriarty wants this time. I have no idea. But whatever it is, I will always be yours. There is so much uncertainty here. But there is one thing you can be certain of. I am yours. And nothing else matters."

Sherlock smiled. "I love you, John."

"I love you, too."

And they fell asleep, wrapped in each other's arms.

~~~

Sherlock was released from the hospital not long afterwards. He stumbled out weakly with John on his arm. The doctor ordered Sherlock to rest, and he did, but not willingly. John spent a few weeks telling Sherlock to get back into bed and to stop running around. He would take Sherlock's arm and lead him back to his bedroom. He'd have to hold Sherlock down for a few minutes before he'd finally give in and close his eyes. John would kiss him lightly and bring him some tea.

There was no sign of Moriarty. Or, as Sherlock said, there was no sign of Moriarty  _yet_. But he would be back. John and Sherlock both knew that.

It had been three weeks since Sherlock left the hospital. Sherlock and John were draped across the couch, John burrowed into Sherlock's shoulder.

John looked up. "But don't you think--?"

"Hush, John." Sherlock put a finger to John's lips.

"Please, Sherlock. Don't you think it's odd that Moriarty hasn't turned up again?"

Sherlock smirked. "His plan went wrong. He's going to be extra careful about the next step."

"Aren't you worried?"

Sherlock's smirk grew into a soft smile. "No."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Why?" John put his head back on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Because I have you."

John opened his eyes. "Me? What am I against the great Moriarty?"

Sherlock pushed John up so that they were both sitting and facing each other. Sherlock took John's hands. "You are my love. We are together. We are here for each other. And as you said, nothing else matters."

"I--" John began.

"I love you, John," Sherlock said, and he kissed him passionately.

"I love you, too," John said once Sherlock pulled back. "And nothing else matters."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> tumblr: lionrose.tumblr.com  
> twitter: @K4TE8


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